


Fear Not

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Skin-changer [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Khan!Courier, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sheds her names like snakeskin, but once Courier Six was known as Angel.</p><p>“You feed something, it follows you. You pet something, teach it you not gonna hurt—it loves you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear Not

Angel tastes dust on the back of her tongue, dry grit rustling underfoot and sun beating relentlessly on her bare shoulders. She keeps her hunting rifle at hand, machete by her side—not that she’s expecting anything this close to Violet’s hide-away. Even the half-feral dogs running around aren’t going to bother her.

No, not Angel.

She’s part of the pack, dust in her blood and copper stains between her teeth.

The first few lope up to greet her, high barks catching on the breeze. A tatter-eared mongrel circles her happily, then yips and balances on his back legs to place his paws on her chest. His tail wags furiously behind him and she can’t help laughing, scratching behind the ear. Nice boy, happy to meet her.

Not that he’s too friendly with others.

Khans pride themselves on being tough, but there’s no pride in running out and becoming the newest chew-toy for Violet’s pack of dogs. But Angel’s always been good with animals. Papa Khan calls it a gift, says it’s because she’s half-animal herself. Skin-changer, throwback to a world before the bombs dropped. She doesn’t know much about that lore, just knows it runs deep—bones of the world, strung on pretty words sung around campfires.

And when the bombs fell, it put civilizations to the long sleep, awoke other things.

The gift is rare though, and people like Papa Khan who claim to remember even rarer. Centuries yet will see them both buried in dust and shadow.

Angel figures Papa Khan doesn’t believe half the shit he says. She bleeds the same as anyone else, scars and cusses just as much when her skin breaks—but she knows this: she’s never needed to fear wild dogs or molerats. Hell, they’ve taken bets on whether or not she could charm a yao guai, but Angel’s got no itch to go testing her skin on that. Old lore don’t protect you from being a damn _idiot_. Still—out of respect to Papa Khan, out of respect to the ancestors that walked before her, she wears a strip of gecko-hide leather around her wrist. Doesn’t let her change skins, but helps remind her who she is. Blood is the only thing left unchanging.

She knows Violet’s watching her through her scope, but the Khan woman’s not going to fire. Not when Angel brings good chems each time. Not when Violet’s half-wild like her own dogs, just as charmed by Angel’s scent and easy smile. She grins, mirrored edges bright and sharp, and waves.

More dogs circle around her as she approaches, tails wagging, yipping, frolicking with joy at their new visitor. Still walking—not a run, but a ground-devouring lope—she rummages in her pack for a few strips of jerky. Molerat tastes like shit, but the dogs like it anyway, so she rips it into shreds, tossing a couple here and there and smirking as the dogs descend on the unexpected bounty.

Climbing up to Violet’s post, she sees the Fiend woman squatting, heels flat on the ground and elbows resting on her knees. Violet’s the darkest person she’s ever met, all over—she used to think Violet just drank sun like a gecko, but Angel’s seen beneath her shirt, the lines of her hips and the bumps of her vertebrae. Violet’s burnt umber all over. Watching her, head cocked.

“Hey Violet. I brought your chems,” Angel coaxes, squatting companionably. Not directly in front—just like an animal, that might be a challenge—but slightly to the side. She sets down her pack, pulling out the parcel that Jack and Diane trusted her with. Violet doesn’t go much for Mentats, but the Psycho and Jet always go down a treat, and she catches the woman’s intent interest.

“Also got a little bit of a snack, if you’re hungry.” She pulls out a bottle of water, taking a swig—always important to show trust—before offering it to Violet.

“Ha. Good see you, Angel-girl.” Violet grins, baring teeth filed sharp, and takes the water. She gulps half of it in one go before capping it and setting it aside. Without bothering to wipe the lingering water from her lips, she leans forward, nose almost brushing Angel’s neck and sniffing deeply. “Smell good. Good fights. Blood and gut, all over.”

“Just a couple NCR assholes trying to pick a fight.” Angel shrugs, pulling out another strip of jerky. Gecko this time, wrapped separate from the molerat. She gnaws a hunk off, chewing noisily before passing the strip to Violet.

The Fiend growls, snapping her teeth. “Should’ve made jerky out of them.”

“Yeah, should’ve. Hard to make it when they’re still running away though.”

Violet snorts, spitting a chunk of greasy meat onto the floor. Shooing the dogs away with one hand, she picks it up again. “Let ‘em live? Stupid.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t in proper Khan territory. Didn’t want ‘em to put out a radio for me.” And the memory’s still sour, cold rage swallowed like heavy stones. “Fucking NCR.”

“Fuck.” Violet pops the meat back into her mouth, heedless of the dirt. She wolfs it down, smiles. “Hey. Wanna fuck?”

Angel tilts her head, considering—taps her finger to the side of her chin and glances skyward to figure the time. Makes a big show of checking her pack before laughing at Violet’s ferocious snarl. “Got time, so why not?”

Violet springs forward, palms hitting Angel’s shoulders and shoving her back onto the bedroll. Her ridiculous skull-helmet rolls off to the side, two dogs immediately chasing it. Her lips strike Angel’s, teeth clicking together before she braces herself with her forearm extended by Angel’s ear. Violet tastes like smoke and grease, gunpowder clinging to her skin. Gritty to the touch—but Angel likes gritty, wouldn’t know what to do with soft hands and a body that smells of soap instead sweat. Like scrubbing too hard, washing off the surface animal to leave behind an empty space, trying to call it human.

But that’s the nice thing about Violet—she doesn’t pretend. Just growls in her ear, nips the cartilage. Makes Angel’s breath hitch, runs a sharpened tooth along the tendon of her neck. Pants wordless, excited just by this little bit of heat between them as she straddles Angel’s thigh, grinding down so hard Angel feels the slick rub of flesh even through her pants.

Angel knows Violet can come like this, can grind herself on a leg and clench and pulse her way to climax. Doesn’t really need Angel; could hump her own hand if she had to. But Angel likes Violet, and so she licks her lips, presses her wet mouth to the line of Violet’s collarbone. Unstraps the other woman’s pauldron, the metal clanging as it tumbles aside. Sucks a little hard, a little sweet, washes the taste of dirt out with saliva and Violet. Loves the way Violet growls and bucks her hips, presses ragged nails into the meat of Angel’s arm. The way Violet throws her head back, exposing her throat. The way Violet falters, eyes wide and hazy as she grunts into orgasm, but Angel doesn’t want her to stop, no—so she twists her hand up the back of Violet’s shirt. Marks her up the same way Violet’s marking her, digging her fingers in the other woman’s skin, leaves crescent gouges.

Violet’s mouth parts, she arches— _howls_ , baying at the sun like some crazed thing before falling forward, breasts mashed to Angel’s. So soft, warm—the only softness either of them have, the rest all teeth and half-chewed nails. Violet’s arm on her sternum, the pressure easing as Violet rocks back to slide her hand up Angel’s thigh. Everything’s in bits and bursts, can’t stop it. Can’t shut it out, even when Angel shuts her eyes tight and Violet rubs hard and fast against her, trying to get the clit but Angel’s pants are too thick. Clumsy, Violet goes all around, never quite on target. Even when she does get there, the fabric disperses her effort.

“Naked. Naked is easier,” Violet groans. “Like to see your tits, Angel-girl.”

“Not naked.” Because she likes Violet’s honest grime, the dried blood flaked beneath her nails—but _fuck_ if that’s entering her pussy. “Underpants on. And under a blanket,” she adds, swatting away a curious dog. Angel can ignore the dogs _looking_ , easy as shutting her eyes, but cold noses are harder to ignore.

Violet snaps her teeth, playful with good cheer. Sits back as Angel sits up, legs wrapping over Angel’s hips and thighs stacked over Angel’s. Almost rips the shirt off, yanking at the shoulders, before Angel snaps her teeth. A hint of play, but still a warning, and Violet sulks like a low cloud as Angel pulls it overhead. But Violet likes Angel’s breasts, sniffs and nibbles, pinches the nipple between her fingers and rolls her tongue about the areola when Angel pulls off her sports bra. Violet cups them, traces her thumbs along the gentle slope where breast meets ribcage, and even if this didn’t feel nice for Angel _hell_ it’s obviously doing something for Violet.

“Blanket,” Angel groans, pulling at her belt buckle and unzipping the fly. Too much effort to take the pants off all the way, but still making room for Violet’s palm.

Violet grunts assent, pushes to lay Angel down again and tugs the blanket over her own shoulders. The cloth hangs off her thin frame, makes a tent over Angel’s torso. Itchy, little too warm for the day heat, but keeps the dogs away from Angel’s bare tits.

“Look good. _So_ good,” Violet croons, straddling wide and reaching down between her legs to the join of Angel’s thighs. She presses her finger over the front panel of Angel’s underwear, makes Angel squirm and clamp her legs together. Traps Violet’s hand, but Violet wasn’t planning on leaving anyway—just rocks her hand back and forward, familiar with the rhythm of Angel’s clit. The steady pressure she likes, the way Angel breaks apart and loses herself before she comes. The way she stitches back together beneath Violet’s mouth, _especially_ when Violet curls her lips over her teeth, softening them as she nibbles the curve of her shoulder…

Angel cries, clenches, _comes_.

Groans “stop, stop,” because her clit gets too damn sensitive right after, and Violet stops. Kisses her nose like an apology, just rolls over and slots next to Angel with that itchy blanket over all Angel’s skin, but it’s not so bad. Nice to feel lazy, sprawled next to Violet.

Violet nips her shoulder, runs a dirty fingernail across a fresh scar on Angel’s shoulder. “Still so much skin.” She drums her fingers in an arcane tattoo, alternating between red injury and unmarked flesh. “Beat-down didn’t beat you down proper.”

“I’m tough.” With a smirk, Angel rolls over to pin Violet beneath her, thrusting her thigh between the other woman’s legs. Tangles the blanket around them like noodles on a fork. Violet bears down with a growl, body arching as her nails scrabble over Angel’s back. “I told you, I’m a Khan. Fuckin’ toughest tribe out there.”

“Soft name, Angel.”

“Nah, got it out of one of them old books—angels are scary, Violet. Things from nightmare, charred wings and broken-mirror smiles. First thing they always had to say was ‘fear not,’ because they were so damn scary.”

Violet laughs like razors. “You not scary. Dogs like you.” She grins, cocks her head. Tilts her head back, as if inviting a kiss. Exposing her throat.

“They like you too. You saying you’re not scary?”

“You feed something, it follows you. You pet something, teach it you not gonna hurt—it loves you.” Sometimes, Violet says things like that—hints at knowings beyond the broken patter of her speech. Makes Angel wonder if Violet’s tribal. Not _was_ tribal, but still _is_ , under the chems and Fiend-paint. “Dogs better’n people. All animals. All bleed under the skin. All go the same way.”

Leaning forward, Angel presses dry lips to Violet’s cheek, the corner of her mouth. “I feed you gecko and chems. You love me?”

Violet’s mouth cracks open, laughter spilling like water on parched earth as she twines her arm over Angel’s shoulder. Twisting her hand into the Khan’s hair, she says, “Love you as much as love dogs, drug-girl.”

Angel knows Papa Khan doesn’t give a shit if the drug-runners sleep with the clients or anything—really, anything a Khan does as long as it doesn’t bring shit down on the tribe or piss off Papa Khan is fair game—but thinks that maybe, he might make an exception for this one. Jack and Diane lost too many damn runners to Violet’s dogs, and Motor-Runner always just shook his head and shrugged about it. Muttered shit about how Violet was her own woman, and if _she_ wanted to get rid of her own supply, that was her own damn fault. Really, Angel knows Motor-Runner’s scared shitless of Violet. Violet comes and goes as she pleases.

And if she screws up somehow, pisses off Violet—maybe doesn’t fuck her good enough one time, or makes her jealous—then they gotta go back to bribing some stupid-ass wanna-be ‘courier’ into delivering the chems. Or losing out on the extra source of caps.

But this kind of love isn’t anything worth worrying about.

She loves Violet too, as much as she can love anything else. She loves the taste of the wind, she loves the moon-lit road and the darkness winding across the sands at night. Angel loves the shadows across the moon, the scent of freedom and the itch of a fresh-healed wound. She loves the open road and possibilities, maps the desert with every journey wound into her feet. She wears her past like any Khan—proudly, tracing victory in the lines of old scars.

It’s not the soft stupid kind of love that Jerry the Punk natters about, with his limp hands and fragile words. Love shouldn’t make you weak in the head and heart, all soppy and weepy like all your bones got turned to jelly and your head’s all agave nectar, syrupy sweet. No. Love should sharpen you, hone you like a whetstone.

So yeah, she loves Violet.

And tells her as much, bearing her lips down and a hint of teeth as she sucks at Violet’s throat. More grease and smoke-smell, the tang of old beer and some of that sour-chalky aftertaste from Buffout. Violet moans, pulling at her hair—then growls, swatting away one of the dogs that got too curious. Angel hitches the blankets closer around them despite the heat. Doesn’t want a cold nose on her ass.

“Gonna stay Khan forever?”

Angel laughs, licking under her chin. “Couldn’t set up house here with you. Always gotta be running around.”

“Not asking to marry, drug-girl.” Violet responds with vicious fingers, tickling along Angel’s ribs, sending her squirming and laughing. “Asking if gonna stay ‘round Red Rock Canyon forever. Boots wearing thin, tramping same ground over’n over.”

“Thought ‘bout it. But. Tribe’s all you got in this world. Miles don’t thin the blood like that.”

Violet snorts, patting Angel’s ass and sitting up. The Khan pushes herself up, grabbing her sports bra and pulling it overhead as Violet starts dressing again. The dogs snuffle about as Angel hauls herself back into her clothes, thin cotton panties sticking to her sweaty skin. She cinches the belt tight—her jeans are a little too big, loose for easy running but apt to slide off her ass without a belt—and thinks that’s the end of it, since Violet’s quiet for a long while.

Eventually though, the Fiend breaks the silence.

“Gonna miss you when you go,” Violet says, soft and mild.

That puts Angel on edge. Violet’s usually about as soft as a cactus. “What do you mean, when I go?”

“NCR pinching ever in. Cuts territory, edges you. Not meant to live trapped on same ground for years and years. Whole world’s your hunting grounds.”

“Huh. I’ll tell that to the next pack of radscorpions I run into.”

“Fucking idiot.” Violet snorts, swatting Angel’s shoulder.

Leaving, she casts a glance in the direction of the main Fiend stronghold. There’s a figure in the distance, metal armor glinting malevolent in the sun. She knows that’s Cook-Cook, but too far away for him to be a danger.

She shivers, loping back to Red Rock Canyon.


End file.
